


New Skins and Old Memories

by Vera_dAuriac



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Cunnilingus, Doomed Relationship, F/M, Fake Orgasm, Hair-pulling, Historical Inaccuracy, Multiple Orgasms, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, foot washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos doesn't make it to the crossroads in time, but they do see each other one more time four years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the100skypeople](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the100skypeople/gifts), [ScoutLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/gifts).



> I originally wrote this before seeing Season 3 but after Hayley Neubauer (costume designer for the series) announced that those were indeed forget-me-nots on Athos's new pauldron and uniform. Having now seen the reunion and discussed it at length with other folks, part of me is pretty sure there are going to be a lot of people who hate this, but it's what I wrote, and that's that.
> 
> Thanks to ponygirl72 for answering some horse questions.
> 
> Thanks for encouragement to the #smuttyladies and Con of Four, as well as the lovely Milathos community I've found on tumblr and the Twitter fanfic group.
> 
> I really owed two people Milathos fic, but I'm afraid I only have one in me. Hope you two don't mind sharing. If I write another, you two can fight over whose is whose.
> 
> The characters aren't mine, and more's the pity.

by Vera d'Auriac

1631

The sketchbook was full of patterns—fierce animals, crosses, saints, sunbursts, roses. Athos liked none of them. Still, he flipped back to the front of the book, convincing himself that one of the designs would surely work, if he simply looked at them again.

About half way through he stopped at St. George slaying the dragon, an interesting choice given France’s current relationship with England. He was ready to turn the page when the leatherworker approached and peeked over his shoulder. “Ah, a classic, Monsieur. I can emboss that on both pauldrons and doublet by the end of the week.”

“Perhaps not,” Athos answered. “I am afraid to say I’m not seeing anything quite right. My apologies for wasting your time.”

“Not a waste at all, Monsieur. If you do not see something which pleases you, I will design a new pattern for you.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “And still have it done by the end of the week?”

“For the new captain of the Musketeers, absolutely! What sort of design might you like? An eagle, perhaps, like the Roman generals of old? All the eagles in this book were drawn by my predecessor. They would not befit an officer of your stature. I shall design a new one for you exclusively.”

“Not an eagle,” Athos said, still flipping through the book, hoping to find something right enough that it would provide the needed spark. He slowed when he reached the page of roses. They were no doubt lovely, yet still not precisely what he desired.

“You like flowers, Monsieur? But not roses. I could do lilies or sunflowers, or….”

“Forget-me-nots?”

The leatherworker beamed. “Forget-me-nots! Perfection, sir. Something like this?” He snatched up a piece of charcoal and produced a blank bit of parchment. His hand flew around the page, and in under five minutes, he had a perfect design.

Athos choked down the emotions—the memories, longing, and guilt surrounding her—that threatened to overwhelm him and opened his money purse. He pulled out several coins above what he knew to be the man’s usual fee. “I’ll see you at the end of the week then.”


	2. Chapter 2

Anne was so sick of the blue dress she wanted to _burn_ it. _No. Get control of yourself. You need a good dress, and this is your best. It’s why you wore it for him, after all_. But now she wished like hell she’d worn anything else when she thought Athos would join her at the crossroads. On this horrendous trip to London, every time she had needed to look good, she’d trotted out the blue again. And each time she did, all she could think about was that it was the dress she had worn when he didn’t come.

Still, she straightened her spine and clutched the money purse in her pocket. Everything she could spare had been pawned between Portsmouth and London for this moment, including all her other good clothes. If she had learned nothing else in Paris, it was that you must dress the part. God knew she could play any role, but she had to have the blasted clothes to make it work. And since she still hadn’t decided what role she would find here in England, she figured a dress shop was the best place to start. The right clothes were the key to security instead of a life of want, and she knew that even living frugally, there was frighteningly little time between now and her first missed meal or picked pocket.

So Anne plastered a smile on her face while her heart continued to crumble, and pushed open the door of the finest dress shop in London.

“May I help you, milady?”

Anne swallowed the bile rising in her throat and spread her smile wider, reminding herself that this was typical address in England. “I certainly hope so,” she said in overly accented English. If her trip to London had taught her anything, it was that the people she had termed “traders of taste”—sellers of clothes, wine, food—had a bias for all things French. “I’ve recently arrived in London and need some new dresses.” 

“If I may say so,” the mousy girl said with a curtsy, “your current dress is extraordinary.”

“It was made by the Queen of France’s own dressmaker,” Anne said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. One of the apprentice seamstresses at the palace who worked with the queen’s favorite designer had made it for her based on one of her mistress’s discarded drawings. Queen Anne could never have pulled it off, so it was frankly best it had ended up being made for the woman it was.

“My mistress will want to see this!” the girl said with such enthusiasm, Anne couldn’t prevent a smirk. “Not that you will not love my mistress’s designs. She keeps abreast of Parisian fashions, but she has her own genius. I think you will be very pleased with what she will be able to make for you. Let me get her. One moment, please.”

The girl ran away to the back, leaving Anne alone in the shop. She looked around, taking in the bolts of silk and linen, the design books laying open on a table. She began flipping through one of the books, but found most of it incredibly pedestrian and containing what she had worn two or three, even five, years previously. Anne slammed the book shut, angry that she didn’t know if all of the English dressmakers were this far behind, or if she had been misinformed about the Thorley Dressmakers being the height of fashion in London.

But then she opened a second sketchbook, and these dresses astonished! The Queen of France nor none of her ladies had anything close. The cuts were more flattering at the bodice and the way they were often cut low, yet with an upper part across the throat, would be ideal for her. She flipped the page and the next dress had a similar bodice, but with a flared skirt designed to narrow the waist. God! But she would look phenomenal in one of these dresses. They were all drawn in garish colors she would never be caught dead in, but the cuts! The ladies of Paris would claw her eyes out for one of these dresses. In reasonable color palates, at any rate.

“Milady, welcome to Thorley Dressmakers,” said a middle aged lady with more gray than black in her bun. “I am Mrs. Thorley. I hear you would like a new dress.” The girl from earlier tugged at the mistress’s sleeve and whispered in her ear. “Yes, yes. And I am told, and can see quite clearly myself, that you are already wearing an exquisite frock. From Paris, I believe.”

“Yes,” Anne said, reminding herself of her accent and trying not to hurry Mrs. Thorley past her flatteries. “I am quite willing to share the secrets of my dress with you if I might persuade you to make me something like this.” She pointed to the dress in the second book and the mistress came and took a look.

“Ah, yes. It is a fashion I have modified to suit body types such as your own. My hope is to introduce the style to Lady Underwood, whom I think will be flattered by such a cut. But in the meanwhile, I can think of no client who would be more suited to this dress than you.”

Underwood? Wait. She knew that name. There was a Lord Underwood who been a…colleague of the Cardinal. In fact, thinking back on the limited number of people she had ever known about involved in English espionage, Underwood was the only one still alive. If she had a soft spot for anyone, it was for people who knew how to survive. Perhaps this was a sign, an indication of what her future might hold. She had no better ideas, having dismissed selling her services as a reader, writer, or translator. Yes, those were all “honorable” professions, but serving your country was also supposed to be honorable, and where had her years of working for the Cardinal gotten her in the eyes of those who knew her? She had only a few sellable talents, and she might as well sell the one that would bring the highest price. There was no one left to impress by making an honorable living, so why take up some meager existence translating correspondence for a petty businessman who cheated his partners? No, better to sell her vicious talents to the English crown for so much more.

So it was decided. She needed new clothes and information about how she could find Lord Underwood and convince him to hire her. Luckily, these eager English seemed poised to provide her with everything she needed for her fresh start. A meek smile and some naiveté, she thought, would work best. “Designed for Lady Underwood?” She lowered her face and batted her eyelashes. “Well, then I’m sure this will be too fine for me at the moment. What else might you have to offer? Or,” she paused and tried to blush, but that was always the one sign of modesty she could never master, “perhaps I have—how should I put this—come to the wrong neighborhood to shop? I am new to your country.”

“No!” exclaimed the shop’s mistress. “I think, well, I think my designs will suit you rather well. And if price is an obstacle, we can surely work something out.” She eyed Anne’s dress openly, wantonly.

_No. No! You cheap English shopkeeper! You cannot have my best dress. My dress that I wore for him. I’m allowed to burn it, but you are not allowed to have it. I dreamed of building a life in this dress. I dreamed of Athos taking me out of it. You cannot take this dress. This dress is mine!_

But Anne forced herself to smile her most charmingly, knowing that life, if nothing else, was about sacrificing what you cared for most on the altar of pragmatism. “Oh? What sort of deal?”

“I could perhaps charge you for one dress, make you two, and I could have the one you are wearing.”

It was a very good offer, and she hadn’t even started bargaining yet with this woman who so clearly desired what only Anne could provide. At the least, two remarkable dresses that would help her make her way into English society and to the side of Lord Underwood for the price of one. All she would need to do was give up a dress that not ten minutes ago she had wanted to burn. Yet, her heart ached. Would Athos like her as well in one of these new dresses? _Who cares! Athos will never see you in one of the dresses you buy today. He will never see you again. If he had wanted to see you again, he would have shown up. If he had cared._

_Athos is gone from you forever. Plan your life around that fact. You have done it before. Do it again. He doesn’t care what you do, what you wear, or who you are. You need to survive. That’s all you can do. Athos is dead to you._

“That sounds promising,” Anne said with a smile that made her want to vomit. “Can you make this in black? And, of course, I’ll need shoes and gloves.”


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos slid into the booth and grinned at Athos across the table. Athos returned the smile, but he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like what Porthos said next. The night up to that point had been rather pleasant, possibly the first that could be deemed such in weeks. Everything had changed so suddenly: Aramis leaving, d’Artagnan marrying, the declaration of war, Aramis’s refusal to return, all within a matter of days. For so long it had been the four of them with too much time on their hands. Aramis was now far away and d’Artagnan might as well have been, too, with his wonderful new life with Constance. Athos and Porthos tried to continue as usual, but the war left little time, and their missing friends left them with little inclination.

But tonight Athos and Porthos had made it to one of their favorite taverns, set up camp in a booth that had housed them many nights in the past, ordered a familiar, cheap wine, and told stories they’d both heard and recited dozens of times before. 

Porthos, as he so often had in nights past, got a gleam in his eye and left the table. Athos had guessed where he was off to, and when he returned now with his dimples on full display, Athos thought he knew quite well what his brother had been up to. And that was all very well for Porthos, but Athos would have to excuse himself. Surely Porthos would understand—he almost always did turn down this particular entertainment, so it wouldn’t come as a surprise.

“So,” said Porthos. “I’ve just made arrangements with Marie-Elaine. She also introduced me to a new girl, Lydie. She seems awfully sweet. A little shy and quiet. Thought she might be your type.”

Athos tried to smile at Porthos. It really was a very nice gesture, but not tonight. “That was thoughtful, but tell her ‘No, thank you,’ for me.”

“It’s my treat,” Porthos said. “You deserve a little unwinding.”

Athos didn’t want to take away from Porthos’s enjoyment of the night—he knew this was what his friend needed. But Porthos had watched Athos sit in enough dark corners over the years that he would surely appreciate that this was what suited Athos best tonight. He had his wine. He would be happy.

“It means a great deal that you’ve made the offer, but truly, I will be fine here. Go. Enjoy yourself.”

“The offer stands. Change your mind, and just ask for Lydie.” Porthos rose and rested his hand on Athos’s shoulder. “Things have been hard lately. Don’t make them worse.”

Athos nodded, but did not look up to watch Porthos leave. His glass provided sufficient entertainment, and no one else was going to stare at it, whereas Porthos would have many eyes on him. Athos guffawed at his silly thought.

His current situation was rather pathetic, but that rather nicely summarized most of his adult life. There had been points when he thought he had exorcised his demons, like when he had granted Anne mercy and let her go when he had every right to kill her. Afterwards, he had dropped her locket with the forget-me-not inside, insisting he was done with it and her. Now if he strained his eye he could see his new pauldron, her forget-me-not signature stamped into the leather. All he had accomplished that day in the alley was to make it harder to see a forget-me-not when he was drunk and maudlin.

She had said they would never be free of each other as long as they lived. Of course, she was entirely right. He had lived for five years thinking she was dead, and with her supposed death, there had been no freedom for him. But what could he do about it now? France was at war and he couldn’t abandon his brothers, the men he now commanded, to chase her to England. Besides, she did not want him to follow. If she had truly wanted him, she would have waited for just a little bit longer.

“Hello, sir,” said a pretty young lady, slipping into the booth where Porthos had so recently been. She had dark blonde hair, bright blue eyes that popped out from her pale skin, and a nice smile. She obviously couldn’t genuinely be shy in her profession, but he could see why Porthos had described her as such.

“Allow me to guess,” said Athos. “Lydie?”

“Yes, sir.” She dipped her head and her smile turned a bit awkward. “I hope you do not mind me approaching you, but you see, your friend—” 

“My friend should have told you I was not interested in engaging anyone’s company for the evening. He must have forgotten in his hurry to get away with Marie-Elaine.”

“Oh, no, he told me what you said, but I told him that I would be happy to come over and just sit with you if nothing else.”

“That is incredibly kind, but if a better…opportunity arises, I insist you take it.”

She looked up from under her eyelashes. “A captain of the King’s Musketeers. I don’t think I could have a better opportunity.”

Athos examined Lydie more closely. She was new to this tavern, and she demurred quite elegantly, but he did not think she was so fresh and shy as Porthos had thought. She flattered and smiled on cue, and Athos suspected that on closer inspection, he would find her older than he’d originally believed. Perhaps other officers in her experience preferred submissive women, and that explained why she played this particular game with him.

The truth was, he couldn’t say what he would have preferred. He had liked Anne—he still liked Anne, God help him—but would he want another woman who was as bold and ferocious? Since Anne, he had been with a few women, and they covered the range from completely retiring to brutal. He hadn’t genuinely liked any of them. There was only one Anne, one woman who could devour and comfort him with the same kiss, and that was what he liked.

“She’s very lucky,” said Lydie.

“Excuse me?”

“Whoever you’ve been thinking about so intently. Any woman who had a man like you thinking about her like that, well, she’s lucky. I might even be a bit envious.”

“Don’t be. She’s not lucky at all. Her life has been…not one to envy in any way.”

“I find that hard to believe when she has a man like you so enthralled. But I guess I envy easily.” She smiled, and this time it was rueful. Certainly a woman in her profession might well feel this way, yet you rarely heard them admit it. Athos began to like her decidedly more than he had.

Of course, finding something to like about her made Athos stare all the more intently at his wine. He should offer her some. He should just leave. When Porthos was done, he would find his way home without his help. Yet, Athos reminded himself that he was here primarily for Porthos as they attempted to find normality once again in their lives. Aramis or d’Artagnan would never have left Porthos. Athos sighed. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“That would be quite nice. Thank you.” She held out the glass Porthos had used for him to fill.

“I think we can get you a clean glass of your own.”

“This late at night, probably not.” She smiled, this time knowingly, making Athos yet more interested in her. “At least this way I actually know who used it. I’d much rather drink after your friend than most of the other people in here.”

Athos filled her glass, noticing the hard work that had obviously been done by her hands at some point during her life. He said nothing, however, about her hands, Porthos’s offer, or who should envy whom. 

“Something tells me your friend brought you here so you could relax. Because even I can tell that’s what you need.” Rather than being seductive, her smile was sweet, making it all the harder for Athos to protest. He tried nonetheless, but she waved him off before he could say a word. “If you don’t want that sort of relaxing, I won’t push it. I will happily sit here and drink your wine in silence until your friend comes back. But allow me to make one last suggestion—come upstairs with me. Take off your boots. Let me rub your back. Just relax, nothing more if you don’t want.”

Athos had to admit, if only to himself, that this offer was the most tempting yet. He’d had a horrible stiffness in his right shoulder for weeks. Instead of saying any of this to her, however, he topped off his own wine glass. “Very kind, but I’m fine here.”

Lydie tipped her glass to him before taking a sip. After that they sat in companionable silence for the next ten minutes. Athos could almost get used to the undemanding presence across from him. It had been a long time since he’d found someone who made him feel that way. D’Artagnan had been the last new person to manage the feat. Not that Athos couldn’t be stonily silent with anyone. It just wasn’t always so pleasurable.

But as so often happened in Paris, Athos’s comfortable night came to a crashing impasse thanks to a member of the Red Guard. As with most of his brethren, he was big and dumb, and far too stupid to be trusted with deadly objects. And this being a tavern late at night, he could add drunk to the list of the man’s qualities. Apparently, aroused was another.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty sight tonight, Lydie,” the Red Guard said, pawing at her hair. “Why don’t you take me upstairs for a tumble?”

“As you can see,” she snapped, all traces of the young lady Athos had seen when she sat down vanished, “I am already with someone.”

“What? Him? You’re just sitting here sipping his wine. You aren’t even talking. Clearly, you’ve been saving yourself for me.”

“I appreciate that it’s noisy in here, and the lady’s voice is soft,” Athos said, sliding out of his bench, “but I believe she said she is unavailable. I apologize that you had difficulty hearing her.”

The Red Guard turned to face Athos, even took a step closer so he could push his chest up against Athos’s. “I think I heard her just fine. But what you two don’t understand is that a woman sitting down here doing nothing is available to take upstairs. Least that’s how it’s always worked before.”

Athos reached past the Red Guard and across the table to offer his hand to Lydie. “We were just heading up.” She slipped her hand into his, and he grasped it tight. “Unless you’d like to draw swords and settle this in the alley.”

The Red Guard frowned. “No, captain, I would not. Have a good night.”

As soon as the Red Guard stepped away, Athos pulled her to her feet. He put his other arm around her waist and released her hand so he could grab his glass and drain it. That emptied, he handed Lydie her glass, then picked up his empty and the bottle with his free hand. “Shall we go up?”

She nodded, looking a little impressed, which he hated more than anything else that had happened that night save Porthos sending her to him in the first place. As they climbed the stairs, she said, “That Red Guard seemed to know who you are.”

He sighed. “Having the entirely false reputation as the best swordsman in Paris is occasionally beneficial.”

“You’re the best swordsman in Paris?” she asked, pushing open the first door at the top of the stairs. “Your friend just said you were the captain. He didn’t tell me anything else about you.”

“I am not the best swordsman in Paris. It is, however, a mistake that arises from time to time.”

They both entered the room, and Lydie closed the door behind them. The room’s purpose was clear—a wide bed was shoved into the near corner. Behind it, a tiny table held a ewer and basin for water. Here by the door was a coat tree. And that was the sum total of the furniture. There were no chairs, no table for any sort of personal items, nowhere to sit and talk but the bed. Athos didn’t think there would even be room on the table for the bottle and glasses, so once he had his glass full, he carried bottle and glass as he started pacing the narrow strip opposite the bed.

“Thank you for bringing me up here,” Lydie said, once she had herself seated on the edge of the bed. “I know a woman in my profession really can’t choose, but I’ve been with Jerome, and it wasn’t especially pleasant.”

“A woman, no matter her profession, should always have a choice.”

“Why do you think I was so insistent about staying with you at the table?” She grinned and batted her eyelashes.

“I thought you were much younger when you first sat down.”

She shrugged and watched him pace. “I’ve found that a lot of officers like docile women, so I usually start young and naïve. I begin aging myself up, if I may put it that way, if I detect a man of more mature tastes. I began almost immediately with you.”

“More wine?” he asked.

She held out her empty hand instead of her glass. “Please. But I can pour my own. And really, as long as we’re here, you should get comfortable. You’d feel decidedly lighter without all those weapons dangling from your waist for a start.”

Athos had to agree. He had no idea what Porthos had paid for, and if he should stay for only a short time or the entire night. And regardless of what Porthos had purchased, Athos would happily add anything she required to keep her away from Jerome. So he gave her the bottle and found a sliver of table on which to set his glass. He hung all of his weapons belts on the coat tree and put his hat on top for good measure. With all of it removed, he did feel decidedly lighter.

“You aren’t going to start pacing again, are you?” Lydie asked with a chuckle when he retrieved his wine glass with every intention of doing just that. His inability to answer swiftly made her laugh all the more. “Come here and sit down. You clearly need that massage we talked about.”

He both very much did and did not need that. But he had run out of excuses and energy to keep him on his feet, so he sat next to her on the edge of the bed, almost at the foot. She set her glass on the floor and put both of her arms around him, pulling him more comfortably onto the bed, although his feet continued to dangle over the edge.

“Let me start by getting your boots off.” Lydie slipped from behind him and knelt on the floor at his feet. He thought about snatching his feet away from her, but he didn’t want to get dirt on the duvet. By the time it dawned on him that he was worried about the linens of a tavern brothel, she was already unbuckling and then pulling free the first boot.

“You really don’t need to do that,” he protested, even though it was already too late for one boot. “I am perfectly comfortable with them on. And they probably smell. Really, you are very kind, but you can leave them.”

Lydie’s reaction to his speech was to finish removing the second boot. “If they smell, that’s just a sign you need your feet washed.” She reached up his pant leg and rolled down one stocking, dropping it in the boot when she had it off. Her sure but delicate hands repeated the maneuver on the other stocking, and her hands felt so nice on his leg, he lost the will to protest. Boots and stockings removed, she took them back by the table. From a drawer, she took sachets of potpourri and dropped one into each boot. Next, she poured water into the basin, and returned with it and a cloth and towel she’d taken from where they hung on the side of the table.

“Scoot just a bit forward,” she said as she knelt once more on the floor. Naturally, he did so. “Hmm. This would work better without the pants. Let me get you down to your underclothes. That doublet looks like it’s squeezing the life out of you.”

“There’s no need,” he began, but in a flash, Lydie was on the bed next to him, her fingers pressed to his lips.

“There’s every need,” she answered. After a pause, after, he guessed, she knew he would protest no further, she set to work. First she unhooked his pauldron, gently setting it on the bed next to him. The dexterity with which she did it, left him in no doubt as to her earlier comment about knowing officers. Then she unbuttoned his doublet and pushed it off his shoulders. Yes, he could breathe easier, but he wasn’t sure he would say it was an improvement. Before continuing, she took both pauldron and doublet to the coat tree and hung them with reverence. When she returned and started on the buttons of his pants, he didn’t even think of trying to stop her.

“Up,” she whispered in his ear. With his hands flat against the bed, he hoisted himself from the mattress so she could slide his pants off him. She finished removing them from her knees once more. After folding them neatly and draping them over the end of the bed, she picked up the cloth and wetted it. “Forward just a touch. Don’t want to get the bed wet.”

He did as instructed, totally giving himself over to this woman who had changed herself so many times during the night to suit him. Deep down somewhere in his soul where his honor and decency lived, he knew being attracted to a woman who changed for you was basically wrong. But he convinced himself that Lydie had been becoming more herself as the night progressed, so this wasn’t wrong.

As he completely let himself sink into the mattress and offered his right foot to Lydie’s hands, he realized the fundamental point was this: he did need this. He needed what Porthos insisted he needed, what Lydie had been trying to convince him he needed. Athos was tighter than a bow string. Whatever the larger implications of being here in this room with this woman, he could no longer fight them.

“That’s it,” Lydie said as Athos lay back and closed his eyes. “Just relax and let me take care of you.”

And she did with a perfect touch, gentle but sure. She wrapped a hand around his calf and stroked the damp cloth over the top of his foot. He sighed, and she moved to his sole, sure to press firmly enough that there was no hint of tickle. After wiping that part of him clean, she rested his heel on her knee. The cloth, after she had dipped it into the water once more and wrung it out, slipped between his big toe and the one next to it. She slowed and stroked through several times and Athos’s chest tightened. It was such an attentive gesture, something that if she hadn’t done, he would have never missed. But she had done it and now she moved on to clean between the other toes. It was a level of care no one had shown him in a very long time.

The overwhelmingness of it all left him speechless and motionless as she settled his right foot on the floor and took up the left. Again, she held him so delicately but washed him so completely he nearly lost track of who he was, where he was. It…it was no longer merely one of the most caring experiences of his life, but one of the most intimate. His breathing increased, fighting against the weight in his chest that made him want to sob.

Lydie placed his left foot on the floor. “That’s better, isn’t it?” she asked. “Why don’t you get on the bed and roll over. We’ll get your shirt off so I can rub your back.”

Athos finally opened his eyes. She stood over him, smiling down, just as if she actually wanted to be there doing this for him. “Why?” he asked.

“Why do I want to rub your back?” she asked with a grin. 

“Yes. Why do you want to do any of this for me, when I would have been content for you to do nothing?”

“Because I want to.”

Athos shook his head. “How could you possibly?”

“You have no idea, do you?” She still smiled, now as one would at a slow child. She sat down on the bed next to him. Then she lay down, pressed against his side and kissed him on the cheek. “How about this: considering the other ways I could be making money tonight, even you have to admit this is preferable. Now sit up long enough for me to get your shirt off and get you situated.”

He stared into her eyes, and he thought he saw nothing but sincerity there. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d been fooled by a woman’s looks, but tonight, he didn’t care. He wanted to be fooled, if that was what was happening, to believe for at least awhile, someone wanted to care for him. Brushing her cheek, he gently pulled her mouth to his, merely passing his lips across hers.

They sat up together, and she moved behind him and pulled his shirt over his head. She traced his shoulders with her fingertips, kissed his back softly, rested her chest against his back. “Let me go get the oil. I’ll be right back.”

“No.” Athos spun around and took her face in his hands. He kissed her passionately, but he tried not to push too hard. He wanted his kiss to convey his desire and his gratitude, but to also show the same gentleness she had displayed thus far. She seemed to understand, following where his kiss led, their lips finally parting just enough to admit tongues. The taste of her set him off, and he couldn’t stop himself from digging his fingers into her hair. She sighed out a tiny moan when he knocked some pins loose and her carefully constructed coiffure started to tumble free.

And in that moment, he knew that he wanted to truly taste her. To return her intimacy. He knew it wasn’t usually done, but he didn’t care. If tonight was about his need, this is what he needed—to not only receive, but to give comfort. How rarely did anyone do something for Lydie? She was likely just as starved for kindness as he was.

Gently, he lay her back, resting her head on the pillow. When he slipped down her body, she ran her fingers through his hair. “Let me get a few of my own layers off.”

“No need,” he said, his head moving out of reach. He gathered up her skirts—simple by the standards of fashionable ladies, but suited nicely to the needs of her profession—and pushed them up to her waist. Again, for simplicity’s sake, she wore no undergarments. When he moved between her legs and started to bend down, she shoved her skirts back down enough to cover herself.

“You don’t have to do that.” She tried to smile as she said it, but he could tell he had caught her off guard. “I’m supposed to be helping you relax. Giving you what you want.”

He took hold of her hands and nudged them, along with her skirts, back up to her waist. “This is what I need.”

She studied him, and he held still, allowing her to do so, to peer into his soul for a moment. In the end, Lydie nodded. “But I insist I do something for you when you’re done.”

Athos kissed each of her hands, and she let go of her skirts. It had been years since he had done this, but once he saw her, saw the dark curls under her white stomach, he had no doubt his desire would show him the way. And that began with a kiss exactly where he was looking—where her hair met her abdomen. She hummed softly—a lovely, contented noise that wasn’t too much, that did not make him question if she was reacting excessively in hopes of making him believe she was pleased when she in fact was not.

He kissed all around the edges of her hair, first across her stomach and then down the sides. He continued down her left thigh, and then when she shifted slightly, he moved to the right. The contented hum returned again, and she threaded her fingers into his hair. He kissed hard, and she tightened her grip, so he peeked his tongue through his lips and licked. She sighed and he bit, at which she moaned. Now he sucked on her thigh, and Lydie groaned loudly and pulled on his hair, but not in any way that made him even contemplate that she might want him to stop.

Athos licked and kissed and sucked the rest of his way up her thigh. Tentatively, he flicked out his tongue at the bottom of her opening. He had forgotten how wonderful a woman tasted. She was wet and responsive, already shifting to meet his tongue every time he pressed it against her. He loved every moment of it—the smell and taste and warmth of her. But he remembered himself after a few minutes. As much as he was relishing her, this was not any way to please Lydie, and he wanted that even more than his own fulfillment. So he concentrated on her, on her reactions, licking in different places, applying different amounts and types of pressure on her lips. He found by the way she squirmed and the tension of her fingers in his hair that she liked his licks just under her clit and gentle sucking on her lips.

Listening carefully to her moans, Athos could tell that as much as she enjoyed what he was doing, she wanted more. Now. He started licking her clit, slow and soft to begin with, eliciting a whine. Gradually, he built pressure and speed, her moans growing louder and longer. Her legs were thrown over his shoulders, constantly moving across his back as she squirmed.

Athos dug his right hand into her thigh and plunged the first two fingers of his left inside her. She was sopping and he felt around inside her for the spot he knew would give her the most pleasure. Soon, she screamed, an unquestionably reflex reaction to him finding precisely what he was looking for. He sucked on her clit and slid his fingers back and forth, over and over.

Lydie gasped. “Oh God! Athos! Athos!”

When he began licking fiercely across her clit, moving his finger in rhythm with his tongue, she screamed. Lydie pushed herself against his face and pulled hard on his hair to keep him exactly where she wanted him. He wanted to release his grip on her thigh, use the fingers of his right hand on her behind, but she shuddered and came before he could.

Athos slowly licked her until he was certain she had finished, and then he removed his hand and rested his cheek on her thigh until she stopped twitching. After a few soft kisses to her groin, he looked up at Lydie. “Thank you,” he said.

She chuckled softly. “You’re thanking me? I’m entirely sure you have that backward.”

“I wanted to. I _needed_ to. To please you.”

She ran her fingers through Athos’s hair. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since someone did that for me? How much longer if we’re talking about doing it _well_?”

“Likely no longer than it’s been since I had the pleasure of doing it for someone. And I certainly hope it was good for you.” He brushed his right hand across her stomach, but stopped when he dropped it to her hip. “I should clean up.”

“Allow me,” she said, wriggling out from under him. “And I absolutely insist. Please, lie back and relax.”

Athos was happy to permit this, feeling as though he had started to earn his pleasant evening. Lydie started by taking the basin of water she had used to wash his feet to the window, which she opened so she could throw the dirty water into the alley below. Before she returned to the bed, she refilled the basin from the ewer and grabbed a clean cloth. She set it all down on the floor and found the bottle of wine and Athos’s glass, which she topped off and set back down.

She dampened the cloth and sat on the edge of the bed next to his head. (Athos still lay in the middle, not having bothered to move after Lydie left him.) “Now, let’s clean off your beard first,” she said, wiping his face. “It’s such a nice beard. You’re really a handsome man, captain.”

“Athos. Please.”

“Athos,” she smiled comfortably, making a final swipe along his chin. “Let me get your wine glass. Get the taste of me out of your mouth.”

“What if I like the taste of you in my mouth?”

“Then we’ll save the wine for later,” she said leaving the glass on the floor and only rinsing the cloth instead. When she returned to his side, she simply said, “Hands.”

Athos held them out to her and allowed her to wash them clean. It was again beautiful and intimate, and his chest began to ache once more. “You’ve been too kind to me,” he said.

“Oh, Athos, how are you alone? How did she not realize how lucky she was to have you? I can’t imagine any woman walking away from you.”

He balled his clean hands into fists and pulled them back onto his stomach. “You don’t understand.”

She petted his stomach around his fists and slid her fingers through his chest hair “You’re right. I don’t understand.”

“I tried to kill her.”

Lydie stopped moving, and it took her several long seconds before she could meet his gaze. “I can’t believe it.”

“And after she had forgiven me for trying to kill her, I chose my duty over her, so she left me. Left me alone and miserable as I deserve to be. If you will excuse me.” He sat up and she didn’t fight him.

It took him a moment to locate his shirt hanging from a bedpost, but he had it over his head while Lydie still tried to process what he had said. But how could she make sense of his announcement? How could anyone understand his sad, long history with Anne when even he didn’t?

But on his way past her to the foot of the bed to retrieve his pants, she grabbed his hand and stopped him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried. There must be explanations behind all of it, none of which I’m entitled to. I still want you to stay.”

“No, you do not.” He pulled away and draped his pants over his arm. Without pause, he made his way to the coat stand, wrapping his belts around his forearm as quickly as possible. Before he picked up his doublet, he reached inside the pocket with his money purse and removed several coins. There was nowhere to put them, so he let them drop to the floor. “For your trouble,” he said. Clutching his doublet, he bent over and picked up his boots, cradling them on top of the pile, and left the room.


	4. Chapter 4

It took Anne as long to plan how she could meet Lord Underwood as it took Mrs. Thorley to finish her first dress. A Lord Blackfort was hosting a ball, and all of London society, including the Underwoods, were invited. At a gathering of this size, slipping in and mixing with the crowd would be no challenge. In fact, her biggest worry was how to identify Underwood without having to pose a suspicious number of questions. For some reason, his abilities as a spy were all the Cardinal had even mentioned, not height, weight, and hair color.

However, when she arrived at Thorley’s for the final fitting of her _three_ dresses, she saw her answer in the person of the eager apprentice. The girl, it turned out, was not merely enthralled by Anne’s dress but all things Parisian, so she always found any excuse she could to be in the same room when Anne visited the shop. Rather than finding this habit annoying, Anne cultivated the girl’s interest, knowing one day it might pay dividends, and today at this final fitting, Anne intended to cash in. 

“So,” Anne said in a strong French accent, while smiling at the girl in the mirror as she worked on the back of the dress, “this was originally designed for Lady Underwood? You must tell me what she is like. Are we truly so similar?”

“Not similar at all! She is pretty enough in a boring, English way, but nothing like you, milady.” The girl blushed and turned away to fidget with a tape measure.

“That is so sweet of you to say, but I assure you I am the boring one in Paris.” She batted her eyelashes when the girl looked up and caught her gaze again in the mirror.

“I can’t imagine that is even remotely true! You are exquisite and perfect in every way. And you have such bearing. No. Other ladies, even Parisian ladies, must look lesser next to you. And Lady Underwood certainly would as well.”

“Perhaps I am simply older. Much of a lady’s ‘bearing’ comes with age. Usually just before everything else begins to fade.” The girl gasped as though she were personally affronted at the suggestion. _My, but modesty plays so well with the English. So adorably provincial of them._

“Yes, you may be a bit older, but you look more marvelous than women half your age!”

“The fact you consider someone half my age a ‘woman’ rather proves my…maturity.” She raised her eyebrow at the girl, who blushed deeper than ever. “But I have made you uncomfortable. We can stop discussing my age, but I….” Anne paused and dipped her head as if she were ashamed of what she would ask next. “No. I will say no more.”

“Oh, milady, please, say anything you wish!”

“Well,” Anne said, and then paused again to take a deep breath. “I was just wondering, well, Lord and Lady Underwood have been invited to Lord Blackfort’s party. What do you think they will make of me in her dress? Particularly,” she said, now making eye contact with the girl in the mirror again, “do you think he will find me…pleasing?” And here Anne completely transitioned from shy to wanton, wiggling a raised eyebrow. If anything worked better on wilting English flowers than modesty, it was the hint of something scandalous, and therefore, distinctly French.

***

Thanks to the sweet girl at Thorley’s, Anne discovered everything she needed to spot Lord Underwood at the Blackfort ball. She slipped into the ballroom from a servants’ entrance, knowing she would have to give a name if she attempted the front door. Standing straight and casually scanning the room, her eyes came to rest on a group of men in a corner at her end of the room. There were two army officers standing ramrod straight, a naval captain or admiral—she really would have to brush up on English uniforms—and two other gentlemen in what she had discovered were the most fashionable suits in London. One wore an embroidered doublet that came to a point in front, while the other tied a green sash around the waist of his doublet, the ends hanging long in the back. The second was reminiscent of what was just falling out of fashion in Paris but that some, like Aramis, insisted on keeping. Of course, this man’s sash glimmered in the candlelight, the fabric clearly more expensive than Aramis’s entire wardrobe. More importantly, a quick scan of the room did not reveal any other man wearing such a sash. And this man was around forty, with curly dark hair and a full, neatly trimmed beard. If his eyes matched the sash, then she would know from the apprentice’s excellent description this was Lord Underwood.

Smiling but avoiding eye contact that might lead to conversation, Anne elegantly moved her way across the room to the group of men. It took her a full ten minutes, not wishing to hurry or attract the wrong sort of attention. She also decided that stopping to get herself a glass of wine would be prudent after she witnessed a young man approach a lady without a drink by offering to get her one. _The last thing you need is to fall victim to this strange mode of introducing oneself to a lady. Still, do not be hasty; keep your charming yet not entirely welcoming smile. There won’t be another opportunity this good to meet Underwood. Especially since the rumor about Lady Underwood not being in London appears to be true._

When the girl at the dress shop had given her this last piece of information, she had nearly laughed with joy. She could, of course, just approach him and offer a list of qualifications to be a spy, assassin, and all-around useful woman, but in this case, a demonstration of her abilities might work best. And by “abilities,” she meant seduce him, which would be decidedly simpler with him alone at a large social gathering. Her luck was actually feeling so ridiculously good at the moment, she started worrying more than ever about what might go wrong. Most catastrophically for her, Lord Underwood might not any longer be involved in spying for England. If he were not, she didn’t know where else she would turn. _Someone once mentioned the profession of perfuming_. She shuddered at the vision of choking on fumes and mixing liquids in some tiny room all day.

Finally, she made it to the outskirts of the group she had been aiming for. They were discussing artillery, a topic that could only be rivalled by fortifications for sheer boredom. She glanced over a few times, hoping to see the eyes of the man with the green sash, but it was tricky. He needed to be looking up, but not necessarily directly at her, because she did not want him to notice her staring. At least not yet. However, she could never manage this bit of strategy, and finally, quite by accident, they looked directly at one another. Their eyes locked and she was forced to hold his gaze or appear even more foolish by obviously pretending that she hadn’t been looking. He smiled at her and nodded. She returned the nod. The naval officer said something, and Underwood turned away, but not before she clearly saw his green eyes.

At that point, it merely became a matter of how she could speak with him alone. Having seen the interest on his face, she thought he might even help a bit, but when he agreed to spend the first two dances with the sisters of the two army officers, Anne realized that, as usual, all of the work would be done by her. Not that she entirely minded. After all, she was essentially auditioning for this man, and demonstrating her resourcefulness would reflect favorably on her.

The first dance began before she could put any of her plans into action. She watched Lord Underwood from her spot strategically placed between two groups where she could conceivably look as though she belonged to either party without actively participating in any conversation or drawing attention to herself. She contemplated several complicated schemes to get the next dance with him. Or even to wait until after that and try to approach him once he finished with the sisters. But there would likely be more sisters, daughters, and cousins to come, and frankly she disliked how a few of the matrons lining the wall looked at her. They would know every marriageable woman in London, and here she was predominately in black (Mrs. Thorley had added some fine white lace at the throat, wrists, and waist), and they probably were debating if she was a widow, recently arrived to snatch up an eligible gentleman from one of their girls. Soon people would be asking questions.

God! How had her life become this? Conniving for five minutes alone with a man, if only she could outwit an English girl and some grandmothers. This wasn’t the life she would have chosen for herself, but when had she ever gotten what she wanted? _Long ago in la Fère you had what you wanted. You had a man who loved you, treated you like a goddess. You were a comtesse and you spent your days running through the tall grass, making love, and picking flowers._

But that life was gone, through her own stupidity, thinking Athos would never uncover the truth about her, and vile Thomas. She would give anything to go back and try again. Yet, there was no going back. Athos had renounced his title and given away his lands, and apparently, renounced her once and for all as well. And even if he had come with her, what would their life have been?

She had left Paris with little money. Athos, without his lands, probably had even less. A Musketeer’s pay was small and erratic, and mostly went to equipping one’s self for duty. What money Athos didn’t spend on his weapons probably went entirely to wine. He’d always had a thirst, but what she had found after five years in the grave had shocked her. He would kill himself at the rate he was going; she’d seen men in the gutter do it often enough. He had been better periodically over the last few years, but what would happen to him now?

What would have happened to them in England? They would have been forced to find work, but what could they possibly have done? Offered their services to some large country family. Anne teaching the daughters French while Athos instructed the boys in fencing? Absurd! Even if he were no longer the Comte de la Fère, he was still the best swordsman in France and a man of honor. _A man of honor_ , she snorted. His skills were fit for a king, but his honor would never allow him to offer himself to any king but the King of France.

The song ended and couples broke up as new ones formed. Anne saw the officer from earlier walking her direction with an ugly, squat thing wrapped in peach on his arm. _No wonder he had to beg his married friend to dance with his sister._ Anne spotted a wine bottle under the table next to her. It had tipped over, and with the gentlest nudge of her toe, she was able to send it rolling directly in the path of Lord Underwood’s supposed next partner.

Anne really was experiencing the most extraordinary luck tonight, and the woman went sprawling.

Not wasting a second, Anne drifted off toward Underwood, ready to offer herself as a substitute. When she caught his eye mere seconds later, he gave her half a smile and shook his head. She held out her hand and he grasped it. “What might you be grinning at?” she asked in flawless English.

“I don’t think any woman has ever been so desperate to dance with me. Even when I was one of the most eligible young men in England.”

This close, she could see that his eyes were every bit as green as his sash. He was really quite disarming, particularly the effortless way in which he led them onto the floor. Well, he might have disarmed a lesser woman. “I have no idea what you mean, but I would be delighted to dance with you now that you mention it.”

The song began, and the other couples joined them. Although they were all dancing to the music, Anne and Underwood performed their own dance. One that no one else in the room knew about.

“That is a stunning dress,” he said. “But I do have to wonder if you are in mourning.”

“Yes and no,” she smirked. “I am unattached, if that is important.”

“I, on the other hand, am very much attached. I had promised my wife that I would restrict myself to the family members of my friends.”

“But I have no friends or family in London. I would be entirely alone if not for you.”

“Then what brings you to London?” 

Anne launched into the story she had concocted for herself. She was a minor gentleman’s daughter from the country, and she had spent the past two years with family in France. (She thought this last would help her should her accent slip or if she knew something most of the English did not.) She had come to London to see her father’s solicitor and had not yet decided where to go next. Her family were all dead and she had no home at present.

“That would be very sad,” he said before leaning close to her. When his lips were inches from her ear, he whispered, “If a single word of that were true.”

She turned her face to look him in the eye. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning.” They began dancing again, but much closer than before. She could feel his chest when he breathed, and his hand caressed the small of her back every time he had the opportunity to slip it there.

“Would you like to come to my house where I can explain it to you in detail?” he asked when they began a step that brought them cheek to cheek.

“But would it be proper for me to come to your house? Surely if you were only supposed to dance with the sisters of friends, you weren’t to take strange ladies home.”

“There’s no one at my house other than my very discreet valet. Lady Underwood will never know. Provided we take a precaution or two.”

“For instance, I should probably disappear through the entrance I came in.” She stood on her toes so that her lips brushed his ear when she added, “It wasn’t the front door.”

“I suspected as much. Can you reach my right front pocket?”

The pickpocket in her stifled a chuckle. “Probably.”

“There’s one of my gloves. My crest is stitched on it. Find the carriage with the corresponding crest and get in. I’ll follow in fifteen minutes.”

“Won’t your driver prevent me from getting in?” she asked, slipping the glove from his pocket.

“Not if you’re carrying that glove.”

“Ah. So, he’s very discreet as well.”

The music ended and Underwood looked at her, a mischievous glint in his stunning green eyes. “See you in ten minutes.”

***

“Twelve minutes,” Anne said when Underwood slid into the carriage beside her.

As soon as the door closed behind him, his mouth pressed against hers. The kiss lasted until they hit a rather severe bump and were jostled apart. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “No doubt you will.”

In reality, Underwood managed…fine. When they arrived at his house in what she had learned was one of the most fashionable districts, he grabbed a decanter and two glasses before leading her upstairs. His wine, which she didn’t think even Athos could manage to swill, was poured, sipped once, and discarded almost as quickly as their clothing. Still, in the midst of her audition (as far as she was concerned that’s what this was), she took control of the situation the moment she had the chance.

Anne began by laying him out on his huge bed, kissing his lips fiercely, but intentionally withholding her tongue. That she saved for licking down his throat and over his nipples. He tried to take hold of her hair, but she batted his hand away, and continued her exploration of his torso with her tongue. But she didn’t linger, since he didn’t especially seem to be the type to appreciate the tease. Soon her mouth hovered over his cock while her nails dug into his thighs.

He moaned a bit, but she couldn’t tell if it was with pleasant pain or just pain. She tried a scratch and received decidedly better results. So she drug a nail up the inside of his thigh to his balls and gave them a little fondle. His reaction to this was even more emphatically positive, so she only breathed on his erection on her way down to swallow his balls.

“Jesus, woman! Oh God!” He moaned long and deep and she smiled around him.

Eventually, she did move her mouth to his cock, which he obviously also enjoyed. Sadly, for his sake, he snatched her hand away when she tried to slide a finger inside him. _Ah well. Entirely his loss, and I don’t care one way or another._

“My God, that was amazing,” he said after she’d finished swallowing every last bit of his spend. “I really ought to know your name after that.”

She propped her chin on his hip and grinned up at him. “What you really ought to do after that is reciprocate.”

He chuckled, but when he actually bothered to look at her again, he stopped. “Oh. You aren’t joking. Well, come up here. I don’t do that that, _per se_ , but we’ll see if I can’t offer you something.”

His something was his fingers, which he might not be entirely useless with if he ever bothered to really learn what he was doing. But he had made it this far in life without learning, so he likely never would. She attempted to direct him, but it was useless. She thrashed a bit, moaned, and then panted as she pushed his hand away. His smile indicated that he bought her ruse.

“So, if it helps, I’m James. Now do I get your name?” he asked, wiping his fingers on something he picked up off the floor.

“Which name?” she said in French. “My real name? My legal name, the one I was born with, the one I use now?” She smiled and returned to English. “I think if you went searching for my legal name, you would find that I am dead.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How well do you know the inner workings of the French court?”

She loved that this was his question, loved that he seemed decidedly more skilled at his profession than sex. Her lips pulled back into a wide smile she simply couldn’t stop. “Well enough that when I arrived in London I knew you were the man I should see about, shall we call it, employment.”

“What kind of payment would you require?”

“That depends on who you want me to be,” she said, slowly sliding herself up his body, circling a nipple with her finger. “The friendless and familyless lady?” Switching to French, she said, “Or the mysterious emigre. Or,” she slowly bit his lower lip before finishing, “your French mistress?”

“I can see the benefit of all of those…positions.”

She sucked his earlobe and said in English, “I’ll play any of them, flawlessly, assuming you can make me…comfortable in my position.”

“That can be arranged,” Underwood—no, James—rolled on his side and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hard kiss. He was already growing aroused again, and while he threaded his fingers into her hair, pulling it loose of all its bindings, she also debated the various benefits of the roles she might play for him. Play for England. Play to keep herself secure.


	5. Chapter 5

1635

 

Athos wobbled when he ducked under the flap and entered General St. Claire’s tent. It had been…more than a day? A day and a half?...since he had slept. Food, well, he’d had food in there once or twice, but not much. Not enough. But there had been a battle to plan and then to fight, and now the process was about to begin again. They had defeated the Spanish today, but not decisively. They “held off” the enemy might be a truer phrasing. What he could hope to accomplish when battle resumed he did not know. He had no ideas or stamina left. He certainly prayed the general calling him into his tent wasn’t in hopes of Athos having anything else to offer.

“General,” Athos snapped to attention and gave a salute a few feet in front of the table where the general sat eating. Athos’s stomach growled.

General St. Claire smiled and nodded to the other chair at the table. “I suspected you might be hungry, captain. Have a seat. Supper is already on its way for you.”

“You should not have gone to such trouble, sir.”

“For the man who saved my army, this is not nearly enough trouble.” The general picked up a bottle of dark red wine and filled the glass sitting in front of Athos. “Without your suggestion as to troop dispersal on the right flank, I fear the day would have been lost. And this is to say nothing of your personal courage in battle today. You lead your men by the finest example.”

“Thank you,” Athos answered after taking a sip of the best wine he’d tasted since leaving Paris, “but nothing should be said about my personal courage.” It was, after all, his least favorite topic, save only marriage. “As to the troop dispersal, I’ve no doubt you would have come to the same conclusion on your own.”

The general seemed about to disagree with him when an aide came with a tray overflowing with food. A bowl of soup was placed in front of Athos, along with a plate of fish and turnips. Athos had never seen or smelled anything so glorious, that is until a large bowl of melons and grapes was set down between them on the table. “Thank you. That will be all,” the general told his aide. As soon as they were alone again, the general said, “I hope you recall where we were in the conversation, because I certainly have not forgotten.” He stopped and smiled. Athos blew on his soup so as not to have to look at him. “I do doubt that I would have come up with the troop positioning you did. No commander can think of everything. This is why a good commander cultivates and then consults good officers.”

“I am merely glad my suggestion helped. I only wish I could have provided a strategy which would have proved more decisive.”

“Every commander wishes that. Now, eat your meal, and I will explain what I am thinking about for the next battle.”

And for the next half hour, Athos ate and listened, making suggestions when General St. Claire asked for them. By the end of that time, they had a plan of battle and three solid contingency plans for the most likely scenarios depending on what the Spanish did during the night and in the next day or two. On top of it all, Athos almost felt good, his stomach finally full. With a flourish, the general rolled up the map they had been consulting and rejoined Athos at the table to finish his wine.

“Thank you, captain. I feel decidedly better about our next step, no matter what the Spanish attempt. You are truly irreplaceable. Now, go get some sleep. I suspect you are wont to neglect yourself, and I need you in top form. France needs you.”

Athos stood and nodded, but his full stomach no longer felt pleasant after the ludicrous compliment. If only the general understood who he really was—a miserable drunk and a fool. Athos still failed to comprehend why men followed him. The only explanation he had ever been able to believe was that better men had ordered them to do so. As far as being some kind of military genius, Athos had been lucky today. He wished he could tell General St. Claire to ignore everything he had just suggested and call on more competent officers to advise him.

After providing the necessary salute, Athos left the tent. He was still as weary as he had ever been in his life, and yet the very idea of returning to his tent and attempting to sleep was impossible. There was a town only a mile down the road, and if Porthos could be trusted, and Porthos could always be trusted in such matters, there was a tavern. Athos set off down the road.

***

Athos found the tavern suitably sordid. It was dark and sticky and had an unused corner that could have been designed with him in mind. The wine was cheap and the clientele rowdy enough that they paid no mind to the man drinking alone.

Well, Athos wasn’t as alone as he wished yet. Until he’d imbibed a suitable amount of wine, he would have his thoughts, his regrets, and his self-loathing. The more times he replayed the day’s battle, the more ways he saw where he could have made different decisions, some of which could have led to fewer French dead and no need for another battle. Leaving the Spanish intact enough to fight again meant they might as well have not even bothered today. All of the men he had watched die thanks to his “brilliant” plan should still be alive.

Why had he ever let Treville convince him to take over the captaincy of the regiment? Athos had no business being anywhere near a battlefield or soldiers who relied upon him for their very lives and honor. Even though he hadn’t been able to meet Anne that day four years ago, he should have kept riding, riding away from France and the Musketeers and this war, for which he was supremely unfit.

But, of course, he had not continued onto Le Havre and England or anywhere else in the world. Without Anne, his courage had failed. He couldn’t go on alone, so he returned to the garrison where he could ruin and end the lives of good Musketeers. After he’d “executed” Anne back in la Fère, he had muddled along all alone for years until Porthos and Aramis had pulled him into their lives. And once he had them—once more had family—he found when he needed to be strong and independent for the good of that very family, he had run straight back to them.

“Well, if it isn’t the hero of the hour,” Porthos said with a broad smile as he sat down next to Athos and slapped him on the thigh. D’Artagnan was close behind and sat down across from them. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Athos said to his wine glass. “I am simply unwinding from the day.”

“You look more like you’re brooding,” said d’Artagnan. “I know your brooding face, and this is it. You should be happy. We defeated a superior force today in large part thanks to you. I hope St. Claire appreciates that.”

“The general has been very kind with his praise.”

“Athos, when was the last time you slept?” asked Porthos. “I know your brooding face, too, and it’s not usually this pale.”

Athos ran a hand down his face. “It has been…awhile.”

“And what would the general say to his star officer running himself into the ground?” d’Artagnan asked.

“He may have recommended sleep when I left his tent,” Athos admitted.

“Recommended? That’s it then,” Porthos said, pounding the table with the palms of his hands and propelling himself up. “D’Artagnan, we’re taking him back to his tent.”

D’Artagnan also rose, but Athos shook his head as he slowly got to his feet, not wanting to spoil their night because of his exhaustion and melancholy. “No. Stay here and celebrate,” he insisted. “Finish my wine for me. I can get back to my tent on my own.”

“Are you sure?” d’Artagnan questioned. “You really do look dead on your feet.”

Athos did feel half dead, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “I am entirely sure that I can walk one mile in a straight line down a well-marked road behind our own lines to my tent.” Porthos slapped Athos on the back and d’Artagnan gave him a concerned frown. “Truly. Thank you for the offer, but I can make it back on my own. Enjoy your night.”


	6. Chapter 6

The tavern stank so thoroughly of mold and sweat, Anne had to crack a window. If pressed, she would say she hadn’t been somewhere as unpleasant since the last time she’d visited Sarazin. This “González” person thought this very fact made the private room above the bar the perfect meeting place, because no one reputable would come here. She longed to point out this was precisely the problem; she and James could not have been more conspicuous. She rather hoped the rest of those coming could say the same, but if she had learned one thing during this war, it was never to trust the Spanish to turn up respectably. At least González rented the private room so that once inside the tavern, no one would see them. 

“Lord Underwood,” González said, with a nod of his head and a half-hearted bow. “I am pleased you could make it. However,” and here he paused to clear his throat. “Well, I thought you would be coming alone.” 

James looked from González to her and back again with a broad grin. “She is an associate. Please, introduce me to the rest of the company.” 

González did not bother to introduce her to the other three men. Two appeared to be Spanish, while the third, she was willing to bet, was a French traitor. _Just like you, dear_. James, whatever his flaws as a lover or human being, was expert at scheming, plotting, torturing…really all the things King Charles required of him. This also meant he could read people, individually and as a crowd, with alacrity. Allowing her to be left out of the introductions meant that he preferred her to blend into the background, and she would happily oblige. One could often learn more when the people talking forgot you were there. To that end, she took a seat on the bench in front of the window, which overlooked the road out of town. 

They began with a complete recap of just how disastrous the day’s battle had been. In spite of their numerical superiority, the Spanish had been beaten badly, and were lucky to have survived to fight another day. The question now was what they—the spies, assassins, and traitors—could do to help the Spanish cause. 

“General Peña says that we either start doing our part, or we will no longer be paid,” said González in French, the only shared language in the room. 

“What does he mean by that?” squeaked one of the Spaniards in his native tongue. 

“I’m not entirely certain what your colleague just said,” James said in French, “but your general doesn’t pay me. Besides, I am sure pride in our work is enough motivation for everyone here.” 

Anne didn’t even try to hide her smile. _Only a grand English lord would say such a thing. The combined worth of everyone else in this room isn’t a tenth of what he has a year. For ninety-nine out of a hundred of his peers, I would know they were merely dense, but James is far too clever for that. He’s making a speech for these peasants. I wonder if it will work._

“That is easy enough for you to say,” blurted out the man Anne had taken for a Frenchman. Based on his accent, she would guess Gascon, and therefore, likely to be the poorest man in the room. It was probably how the Spanish had been able to recruit him. “Some of us have small means and large families.” 

“Yes, yes,” James said, waving a dismissive hand. “But my larger point is we would all like to help. So, let us list things that would make General Peña’s job easier and then discuss what we here can do to make them happen.” 

“Steal General St. Claire’s battle plans!” said the Frenchman, throwing his hands up in the air. 

“Well, yes. That would help quite a lot,” James said with a broad smile. “Since you actually have access to the French camp, what are you prepared to do to get those plans?” 

The Frenchman looked aghast. For the next fifteen minutes the men named goals they would like to accomplish before battle began again, but they had few practical ideas for how to implement them. _No wonder General Peña is essentially threatening to fire all of them. What a giant group of incompetents. Then again, given the advantages they had in today’s battle and the outcome, General Peña isn’t perhaps a fine martial specimen, either._

When she began listening with any interest to their discussion, James was pressing about French leadership. Of course, the commander was, from what she knew, entirely competent, but nothing spectacular. The French traitor began talking about a clever captain, and James asked some pointed questions, but she lost the thread of the conversation. 

Light came through the open door from the barroom below, illuminating the road that led back to the French camp. For a moment, the silhouette of the man walking through the door was visible. Any observer would note the slim, graceful build of the soldier. An astute observer would have marked the noble bearing in the way he held himself. But Anne would know that body and the way it moved from much farther away in decidedly worse light. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she couldn’t contain a gasp. 

But no one heard her gasp over González slamming his fist on the table the men were seated around. “We must do something!” 

“What about assassinating this captain you mention?” James asked the French traitor with complete equanimity, as though González were not huffing loudly in the chair next to him. 

“Kill Athos?” the traitor gasped. 

Anne started to turn toward the table, but gripped the edge of the seat and forced herself to freeze. In some ways, it was incredibly easy, given that she couldn’t breathe. Athos. Dead. Not metaphorically, but literally. Her head swam so badly at the possibility she almost missed what James said next.

“Is that his name? Well, his name is neither here nor there. But, yes, that is my suggestion. It sounds as though the French would be genuinely hampered by his loss.” 

“But I am not an assassin,” the traitor insisted. 

“I’ll do it,” Anne said, still looking out the window. If she squinted, she thought she could still see his form fading into the night. 

“What?” González exclaimed. “Really, sir, you should have left your lady friend at home.” 

“My ‘lady friend,’” James said, “has probably killed more people than the rest of us in this room combined.” He pushed back his chair, and from the corner of her eye, she could see him walking toward her, although she continued to stare out of the window. “Are you sure you’d like to do this?” he asked when he reached her. “Do you have a plan for how to get into the French camp? Do you need his help?” 

She couldn’t fathom who James was referring to, so she looked up. He nodded his head back toward the table, presumably at the French traitor. 

She scoffed. “No. I think I can manage to get into the camp on my own.”


	7. Chapter 7

Athos stumbled back into his tent and somehow found a lamp just inside the flap so as to prevent him falling over anything besides his own exhausted feet. It was a small tent, and the bunk narrow and uncomfortable, but as the captain, it was his alone, and a cot was preferable to a bedroll on the ground. And on a night such as this, the solitude was worth everything. 

The general worried about his sleep, and Athos worried that the general and the whole army might not just be better off without him altogether. He honestly didn’t know any more than the next man, and he was an internal wreck the majority of the time. No amount of sleep would change that. There were some things he would always carry with him, the sort of things that could only ever hamper his abilities as a soldier of any kind, let alone as a Musketeer and officer. 

He removed his pauldron. For a long time he held it in his hands, just staring at it. Eventually, his weary arms grew tired from holding it, so he rested his elbows on his knees and balanced his pauldron on his open hands between his thighs. 

Forget-me-nots. Why had he insisted on getting them stamped on his pauldron and doublet? He liked to think it was a fit of panic over losing her again and that he would choose differently now. And yet he knew that for the lie it so obviously was. She would always haunt his every decision. Her ghost was as much a part of him now that he wouldn’t know what to do without it. As much as it pained him to have this reminder of her every day, he knew the pain of not having it would be infinitely worse. He patted the pocket of his doublet and felt the familiar silk lump. Yes, the pain of not having any reminder of her would be unbearable. 

Setting the pauldron on his pillow, he pulled off his boots and stockings. Then he managed to unbutton his doublet, but the effort involved to make himself any more comfortable seemed impossible. Moving the pauldron to one side of the pillow, he rested his head on the other half. He took a deep breath, ready to lie awake brooding for the entire night, but when he closed his eyes, he fell asleep only moments later.


	8. Chapter 8

Anne had strolled directly into the French camp just behind a half dozen of the professional ladies brought on campaign for the use of the soldiers. Once in, she slipped away from them and into the shadows. And now her only problem was trying to determine which tent was Athos’s.

She listened to the talk as she slowly made her way toward the center of the camp. Usually, the most important officers would be found there, and she assumed by the way the French traitor talked about Athos and the reliance General St. Claire placed in him, Athos would be near the heart of the army. Of course, if he hadn’t renounced his title, he would have had his coat of arms flying outside his tent like the other noblemen. But he no longer wished to be the Comte, so she would have to find the tent that looked completely out of place in the sea of nobility. 

And then, once she found his tent, she would do what? James and González had sent her here to kill Athos. God knew she had tried to kill him more than once before, and yet, every time, she had found herself relieved to discover he yet lived. Was his failure to come with her to England to start over as bad as trying to hang her? She had forgiven him the hanging, at least in her heart, if not in words to him, so clearly she should forgive him for not coming with her, even if this rejection felt more personal than anything else before. 

Compare that to what she had with James. Even if their relationship was brutal, pragmatic, and in no way based on mutual affection, they had been together for four years. She’d never been with a man so long before. Perhaps he didn’t love her, but he helped her, supported her, and never lied in any fashion to her. She owed James her current level of comfort. Without him, she could have very easily ended up picking pockets in London back alleys instead of living in security and never knowing want. She owed him a great deal. 

On the fringes of the inner circle of tents at the center of camp stood a small tent. It had clearly seen a great deal of use and was meant for a single occupant. The only decoration was a simple fleur-de-lis, embroidered in gold near the opening. 

She stopped in the deepest shadow outside the tent and listened. No noise came from within, but the glimmer of a lamp could be seen at the bottom of the tent flap. Someone was likely inside, but also likely alone. Perhaps even sleeping. Before pushing through the opening, she unsheathed her dagger. 

Inside on the tiny cot, Athos slept. He looked small, curled up on his side, clutching something in one hand. His new, longer hair partially obscured his face, but he breathed evenly, not fluttering or disturbing it. 

_Oh, Athos! You beautiful wreck of a man! What am I supposed to do with you? I once said neither of us could be free while the other lived. Perhaps I should free myself now. It’s why James sent me here after all. James, who has cared for me and never judged. That’s more than I can say for you, the man who no longer loves me. It’s no use to continue muddling my way through this world wondering if you are still in it. Your life hasn’t been a happy one, either. Would you actually thank me for finally bringing it to an end?_

With the knife pointed at Athos, she stepped over to the cot. Kneeling beside him, she kept her blade aimed at his throat. She would slit it in just a moment, but first she would watch him sleep, memorize the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he took his final breaths. But her target blurred, and she furiously wiped her eyes with her empty hand. Perhaps in his sleep he sensed her gesture, and he squirmed a bit on his own. 

When he did so, she got a clear view of what he had clutched in his hand. It was his pauldron. And the leather was stamped with the figure of a forget-me-not. 

She gasped.


	9. Chapter 9

It was something of a blur for Athos when he awoke. A hand was moving toward him, and he grabbed it. Then he saw a knife, only inches from his face, and he froze. Froze, that is, except for his eyes, which drifted up to her face, her pale, beautiful, pained face. 

“Anne.” 

Her eyes, wide and fiery, met his. She swallowed, and seemed about to speak, but remained silent and confused. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked. 

She laughed, but the sound was short and mirthless. “I came here to kill you, of course.” 

His chest tightened and without intending to, so did his grip on her hand. “May I ask what I have done to you this time? Or is it still the same complaint?” 

“Is what happened four years ago still new?” she asked, her beautiful lips twisting into a sneer. “No, Athos, this isn’t about anything you’ve done to me. At least not directly.” 

It took his mind several seconds to parse everything she had said, but then he thought he had a reasonably good guess. “Ah. You are working.” 

She stood up and tried to pull her hand free, but he held onto it all the more firmly. Logically, getting space between himself and an armed attacker since he had no weapon himself would be desirable. But he couldn’t think in terms of tactics with Anne. Somehow, he felt in his bones she would be more dangerous if he didn’t hold on to her. 

“Who are you working for now?” he asked. “The Spanish?” 

“I would have to be more desperate than I am to work for those fools,” she answered, staring intently at something on the bed, but not at his face. It was unlike her to be unable to meet his eyes. What was going on here? 

But he needed to push on, find out what she was so reluctant to say. If she had continued with her plan all those years ago and gone to England, her standing in his tent ready to murder him could have particularly troubling implications. “Last week the English were our friends. Are you telling me this week they are friends with Spain?” 

“They’re never anyone’s friend.” 

Her gaze continued fixedly just to the side of his face, and he could no longer stop himself from looking away from her—a terribly dangerous thing to do, he well knew—to see what had captured her attention so fully. His pauldron still lay on his pillow. The forget-me-not was facing up, impossible to miss. 

He sighed and turned his face farther away from her and deeper into the pillow, loosening his grip enough so that if she wanted to pull away she could. Let her do what she wished to him. Killing him might be best for absolutely everyone. 

“Why?” she begged. 

“Why?” he echoed. “Why do I continue to torture myself with your memory all these years later? Is that your question? If it is, you well know the answer. You are the one who said that we are bound to each other. You said that whoever you are, I love you and always will.” 

Anne made a choking noise, and he had to look up at her again. Her face was contorted with pain, and although she was not crying, he didn’t think he had ever seen her so close to tears. “Then why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you meet me? Athos!” She finally met his eye. “You let me just leave, thinking…thinking all sorts of things. How could you?” 

He squeezed her hand, but this time with equal parts affection, pain, and a desire to keep her close. “I came as soon as I could. You were already gone.” 

Her eyes had turned a bit wild and darted around the tent, unable to focus. “I said sundown. How long did you expect me to wait? I know you, Athos,” and here she started to snarl. “If you had truly wanted to be there, you would have been! I don’t believe you even tried.” 

This time, when she pulled on her hand, he let it go. If she could believe that of him, what was the use? And she wasn’t entirely wrong. If he had meant to go with her, to at least see her and explain, surely he would have found a way to get there sooner. He had been too much of a coward then, and he was too much of one now to even try to explain. 

“Nothing to say?” she snapped. “As I suspected. Why shouldn’t I just kill you? Tell me that.” 

“I’ve no compelling argument for why you should not,” he mumbled into his pillow. 

“Stop moving your hand,” she said very evenly in a cold voice. He hadn’t realized it, but at some point during the conversation, his hand had moved to the pocket of his doublet, where he kept that bit of silk. He stilled his fingers. 

“My apologies. I promise I wasn’t going for a weapon.” 

“Then what’s in your pocket?” 

Unable to look at her, feeling sick and near tears, he deliberately slid just a finger and a thumb into the pocket and removed the glove. He let it drop on the cot. “I did come, perhaps a half hour after sundown. I had hoped you might still be there since it wasn’t dark yet, but you never did give me much leeway.” He chuckled, but even that small laugh hurt. 

“You…came?” 

“Yes.” 

“You were going to come with me to England?” 

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t know that day, and I still don’t know now. I wanted to be with you, to start a new life together. But it was the day war with Spain was declared, and I wanted you to stay, to stand with me and fight for France. I at least wanted to make certain that you knew….” He choked and stopped speaking. 

Anne fell to her knees beside the cot. Her knife had disappeared at some point, and she clasped both of his hands in hers. “You wanted me to know what?” 

His eyes fluttered open and he looked at her, into her eyes and her soul. She wanted to know, and he was powerless not to tell her. “That I loved you, and I forgave you. That I hoped you could forgive me, too, because I believed you.” 

Without warning, her left hand slipped behind his head, the fingers entwining in his hair. She pulled him hard toward her until their lips met in a violent, wet kiss. It was more than he had dreamed of and more than he deserved. But he couldn’t let her go now that he had her again. 

Wrapping his arms around her, Athos pulled Anne up to join him while she slipped off her cloak. At first he tried to rest her next to him, but there was just no space on the narrow cot, so he shifted her on top of him. Immediately, her hips started to grind against him, and he felt himself growing hard. He pushed back with his hips while he touched her everywhere he could reach. His fingers ripped at her hair and traced down her back and arms until his hand settled on her ass and he pulled her harder, closer. 

They moaned simultaneously, and she took the opportunity to sit up and straddle him. She scooted down just enough that she could set to work on his pants, furiously unfastening buttons and then reaching in to unlace his underclothes and free his cock. Her long, confident fingers wrapped around him was the most spectacular feeling he could ever remember experiencing. 

He sat up, pushing her skirts to her waist. She had underclothes on, as well, and he quickly untied them and pulled them down. It was awkward, shifting around on the cot, but he forced her back so he could completely remove her offending garment. With a few more adjustments, he was now on top of her between her legs, her hand still on his fully-erect cock, and she was guiding him closer. 

He couldn’t remember the moment of penetration ever feeling more perfect. They had been compatible lovers, always fitting together and understanding each other’s needs instinctively. Sex with Anne had never been anything less than spectacular, but this very second was something so much more. Entering her was a homecoming, a rediscovery of a part of himself he had forgotten even existed. It was bliss and comfort and _rightness_. When she groaned and gripped him tightly with all her limbs, he stopped to look at her face. Lips parted to allow her panting to escape, eyes wide to drink him in, she was the very picture of ecstasy. With the knowledge that she felt the same as he did, he thrust into her hard, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. 

Athos could have stayed like this forever. Well, that was until her nails scraped against his scalp and Anne pulled his hair until his face was in position for her to kiss. Like their last kiss, their mouths were open wide, devouring each other, all passion and wetness. He thrust harder, needing more of her, and she seemed to need the same, digging her still booted heels into his backside and forcing him deeper inside her. He frantically tried to match her pace and give her what she desired, his body literally aching to please her. She moaned into his mouth, licked his lips, and he was lost. Utterly lost in her. 

Athos couldn’t say how long they stayed like that—him thrusting as fiercely as he could; her ever wanting more—but she pulled him back by the hair again, and panted, “Athos.” 

His fondest memories came flooding back to him. She always began saying his name when she neared climax. The need to get her there was now his sole focus. 

But never one not to take what she wanted, Anne was every bit as intent on the same objective. She pushed him up with a force that had been painfully missing from every other woman he had ever been with. He had no choice but to go with her shove, wrapping his arms around her back and letting his momentum pull her up with him. For a brief moment, he came out of her, and he almost wanted to scream, but she quickly had him on his back while she straddled and took him inside her again. 

At first, she threw her head back and worked her hips back and forth, clearly reveling in the sensation of him being so deeply inside her. But then she stared down at him, hunger in her eyes, her hips never stopping. She leaned forward, placing her hands on his shoulders, pinning him to the cot with her weight. And like that, she was entirely in control. She sped up and slowed down, finally finding a rhythm she liked. Bending all the way down, she swiftly kissed his lips, before moving into her perfect angle. 

“Athos! Athos! Oh God, Athos!” She whined and growled deep in her throat and he could feel his own release moments away. But he still had the presence of mind to remember how she liked to scream. Just as her orgasm began, he lifted up from the bed to bury her face against his shoulder. She screamed until she was forced to bite. Had he not still been wearing his doublet and shirt, if she had been biting his bare skin, she would have marked him. Perhaps even made him bleed. With that thought, he happily allowed himself to go over the edge, to meet her on the other side of rapture. 

When they both finished, neither seemed in a hurry to move—Athos certainly would have been content to allow Anne to lay on top of him twitching for days. In fact, he held her tighter, letting her know he wanted her to stay. She relaxed into the touch, kissing his neck in between panted breaths. He petted her hair—still the most beautiful dark curls he had ever seen. He pecked his lips at her ear, her neck, her cheek, and then squeezed her again. 

The urge to say something welled up inside him, but the fear of breaking whatever trance they were both in battled that urge down. So, instead, he kissed her more, clung to her more vehemently, prayed he would never have to let her go and speak words, because he could tell her how much he loved her so much better like this.


	10. Chapter 10

The weight of the silence was heavier on Anne than she was literally on Athos. Yet she could not speak, and she knew he did not want her to move. She’d never entirely understood, but from early in their relationship, he had always liked for her to remain on top of him for as long as she didn’t mind. He claimed he found her weight reassuring. _How could anyone in his right mind be reassured by anything about me? Even when I try—_

Her harsh self-assessment was cut short by Athos’s warm mouth enveloping her earlobe. With even less chance of maintaining her train of thought, she failed to contain a low moan. “No one has done that in quite a long time.” 

He sucked harder. “Then I should make up for lost time.” 

“Oh, Athos!” she laughed. “This couldn’t be more different from my reason for coming here originally.” She pulled her ear free and looked at him, brushed sweaty hair from his forehead. “How did I ever think I could?” 

He kissed her sweetly on the lips. It was long and lingering, and she could have indefinitely remained like that, there with her eyes closed, simply enjoying his lips. But that couldn’t happen, so she started to shift, getting ready to remove herself from this perfect bed. To return to she knew not what.

However, Athos held her fiercely in place. He kissed her briefly, but almost painfully, before he said, “I have to see you naked. I’ve missed your body like a suffocating man misses air. Let me touch you.” He ran the tips of his fingers down her spine. He licked her jaw. “Let me kiss you. Everywhere.” 

“Everywhere,” it seemed, began with her throat. _Athos. Kissing me. Touching me. Showing me some real fucking affection!_ She almost wanted to weep. “Yes, yes, please. God, yes, please touch me. Get this fucking dress off me already!” A dress, she realized, that Mrs. Thorley had made for her four years ago when she had arrived in London. She’d removed the white lace accents so that she would be dressed entirely in black on nights like this one, but the point was this: when she had exchanged her blue dress for this one, she had told herself Athos would never see her in it. Yet here he was unfastening the buttons at the back of her neck that held the upper part of the bodice around her throat. 

She joined him with a furious need, and they soon had the rest of the fastenings of her bodice opened so he could push it off her shoulders. His mouth found her flesh, nipping, kissing, licking, sucking. She moaned and fought to get her boots off without disturbing what Athos was doing with his amazing lips. One boot came free easily, but the second wouldn’t budge. When she growled, Athos slipped to the floor, kneeling at her feet, and wrestled the boot free. 

His delicate fingers searched up her dress to her thigh and the top of her stockings. With a dexterity that had always impressed her, he rolled one down and then the other in a matter of seconds. He stared up at her, a little lost, almost as though he were unsure where to go next. She knew not what possessed him, but what he chose to do was kiss her right kneecap. Somehow, she realized that was perfect. 

“Dress. Dress. Finish getting it off me,” she begged him after he moved to the left kneecap. 

Athos jumped to his feet, and then pulled her up, pressing their bodies together. But in this position, even with his mouth endlessly exploring her neck, they could slide off all of the layers—dress, shift, everything—until she was standing nude in front of him. He stepped back and looked, but she found she minded not at all. It wasn’t the way Lord Underwood looked at her, like a possession he was proud to own, no different than a favorite sword. Nor was it like the men she seduced in her work, all lecherous hunger. No, this was appreciation, perhaps even a little worship. Athos’s gaze bespoke care and love. 

And yet, as much as she loved his eyes seeking out every contour of her body, she grew restless. _What new scars does he have? There was only the tiny nick on his side from where his father cut him when he taught Athos to fence. All of these years as a Musketeer must have made him firmer and more worn. Even more perfect than he’d been in our youth._

“You now,” she said, stepping forward and pushing his doublet off. Using the strings of the shirt to yank him closer into a kiss, she then set to work loosening those very strings and removing his shirt. When it hit the ground, she longed to step back and inspect all of the new features of his chest that she’d never seen, but could feel under her fingertips. But she reminded herself that his pants and underclothes were already undone. All she had to do was push them over his hips and he would be as naked as she was. Lingering with her hands on his slim waist for just a moment, she continued down to the waistbands and forced them off. 

And then Anne stepped back. The years in the military had, indeed, been equal parts hard on him and beneficial. His muscles were leaner than most men half his age, but scars from blades and even a musket ball crisscrossed his torso underneath the new bruises from the day’s battle. _He’s never looked so glorious. This beautiful body and his handsome face are somehow only enhanced by a little blood and sweat and uncombed hair. The great masters should have painted this._

She had no other words to describe her next action other than to say she threw herself into his arms. Without hesitation, he wrapped her up, his mouth once more pressing against her own. The feel of their skin in contact literally made her shiver. His hands caressing her back, their bellies pressed together, her arms resting on his shoulders—it all felt impossibly good. 

But Athos had other plans for her pleasure. Slowly, he walked her back to the cot, never breaking their kiss. When the backs of her legs ran into the edge, she leaned into his kiss, and he lowered her down. Once he had her turned on the bed and her head resting on the thin pillow, he crawled onto the bed between her legs. His hands stroked her thighs and over her stomach. She couldn’t prevent herself from shifting in an attempt to offer herself up. She knew what was coming—it was the sort of thing a woman could never forget—and she wanted it. Now. 

She reached out her hand, and she was tempted to sit up and grab him by the hair and force him to do as she wished, but she only raked her nails over his hand, resting at the top of her thigh. When he met her gaze and grinned, she glowered back at him. Seemingly chastened, Athos arranged himself better so he could bend his head between her legs. She held her breath, waiting for him. His lips landed next to the hand she had scratched, on the inside of her right thigh. 

He kissed all around her without actually ever placing lips or tongue where she so wanted them. He kissed her thighs, her stomach, her hair. He even started a second round of sucking on the insides of the thighs, which she couldn’t actually complain about, before brushing his lips against her lips. 

She grunted, longing for more, already (or still?) dripping for him. His kisses became more insistent, yet she teetered on the verge of screaming with need, when his tongue emerged from between his lips. He licked her slowly moving his whole head from the bottom of her opening to the top. His tongue circled her clit, and she whined, before he dragged his tongue all the way back down, just as deliberately. 

When he repeated the pattern, she did scream, if only deep in her throat. _This is perfect. How did I manage to give this up for so long? How did I know this was possible and yet keep away from it?_

Before she had time for an answer, Athos moved his focus exclusively to her clit. His tongue flicked over it and she writhed, throwing her legs over his shoulders. Pushed harder against his face, Athos worked his tongue faster. Soon he found the right spot, and Anne reached down and grabbed his hair, so he could not move. 

But he wasn’t satisfied. _God! This is what I always loved about him as a lover. He never settled for good enough. He always wanted to please me more._ One way Athos had always managed that, he employed now. First he pushed a finger inside her, brushed against that glorious spot that had made the difference in her pleasure earlier, before removing it and sliding it into her ass. She knew that in a moment, he would move the other hand from her hip and push it inside her, working that spot relentlessly until she came. The anticipation was almost too much, and when he did slide inside her again and find that spot, she was almost immediately lost. She pulled the pillow from under her head and stuffed it into her mouth to stifle the screams of her second orgasm. 

Athos held her tight, pressure continuous in all the right places until she finished. When she was done, Anne realized that her hand not holding the pillow held a fistful of Athos’s hair, to which he was still attached. Reluctantly, she let him loose, wishing she could hold onto him indefinitely. 

She flung the pillow off her face so she could breathe, panting, heaving, trying to regain herself at least a little bit. Athos kissed her stomach just at the hair line, and pulled back and away and off the bed. In the corner of the tent, he wiped his hands and mouth on a shirt he then tossed over the end of the bed. He poured some wine into a glass and took a healthy drink. And then he walked back to the cot, his body still moving as beautifully as it always had. He held out the wine to her, and she took it and sipped a bit before placing it on the ground next to the bed. 

Athos slid onto the bed beside her. He pulled her close and into another kiss. In spite of his efforts with the wine, she could still taste herself on him. She always had been able to, but she let it go now like she always had. Athos, first and foremost, was a gentleman, and she knew this little ritual in which he showed her a kindness, because he refused to believe she _liked_ the taste of herself in his mouth, mattered to him. 

When he pressed closer to her, she could feel that perhaps he could also use some further attentions tonight. _It probably has been so long for him since he had anything. He must be even more starved for this than I was._ So she reached between their bodies and took a light but definite grip on him. He hummed contentedly into her mouth. 

As much as Anne did not want to stop kissing Athos, she knew what she wanted to do. Granted, if she simply kept at it, he would still be pleased. Yet she could give him something he couldn’t give himself besides merely a different hand. She owed it to him, especially after what he had just done for her. She nudged Athos onto his back and slithered down his body. He made a delightful whimper, every bit as pleased at what she was about to do as she had expected. 

When she reached his cock with her lips, it had grown entirely erect again. It glimmered with wet at the tip in the soft lamplight, probably a mix of pre-cum and their wetness from earlier. She brushed her tongue over the top and Athos shuddered. She did it again and watched him ball the blanket up in his fists. _If he’s already doing that, what’s going to happen when I actually take him in my mouth?_

Not wanting to end it too quickly, Anne squeezed a bit at the base of his cock and teased him with her tongue, licking the entire length of him. He moaned and arched his back. She couldn’t wait a second longer. She swallowed him whole. 

“Anne!” he moaned out as she moved up and down. “Anne. God, Anne.” He opened his eyes and focused on her. “You’re beautiful.” 

She dropped her eyes and sucked harder, went deeper, tried to control her emotions. He hadn’t truly just said, “You’re beautiful.” He’d said something much more, and she needed to give him everything she could. To that end, she slipped her right index finger in her mouth, right next to his cock. 

The extra sensation made him moan again, but not as much as what she did with that finger once it was wet. Gently, she swiped it over his balls, which made his breath catch. She kept going until she reached his hole. She circled it once, twice, his cock jumping in her mouth. Slowly, she pushed her finger in and sucked harder with her mouth. It took her no time at all to find the spot inside him she wanted, at which point she sucked for all she was worth, all the while moving up and down his shaft as quickly as she could. 

He spent quickly, and she swallowed every last bit. When he appeared to have finished, she tickled him once more inside, his shrinking cock twitching one last time. Once she pulled her finger out entirely, she let his cock slide out of her mouth. She kissed it softly on the tip before grabbing the dirty shirt he’d used earlier for the same purpose.

When she gazed up at Athos, he was smiling. _He’s never looked this happy. Not even at the beginning. Never this happy._ Her heart ached in her chest every moment she watched, unable to tear her gaze away. 

“That was…,” he started, but paused, running a hand through her hair. 

“Yes. I could say the same about what you did earlier.” 

“Come here,” he said, gently tugging on her upper arms. She didn’t fight him, sliding out from between his legs and rejoining him at the head of the bed, lying side by side. He brushed the hair from her face and kissed her forehead, but she was still so overwhelmed, she couldn’t raise her eyes. But he didn’t seem to mind, wrapping an arm under her and pulling her flush against his side. “Anne, I…well…” 

Keeping her eyes closed so she wouldn’t have to see him, Anne tilted her head up and found his lips. She kissed frantically, so wet and haphazard. But what else could she do? _I couldn’t lie there while he struggled to finish that statement. And I couldn’t finish it for him._ “I know, Athos,” she said, when she at last relinquished his lips. “I know. You don’t need to say anything.”


	11. Chapter 11

He was back at home, the estate where he grew up, the home he had once shared with Anne. They were in the field with the long grass and the forget-me-nots. No one had mown all summer he realized when he saw the blades of grass reaching up to her waist. They could get lost in that field, never to be seen again. Just hide here forever where no one would find them. 

He walked up to Anne, dressed in white, her hair loose and blowing in the breeze along with the flowing grass and flowers. She smiled when he slipped his hands around her waist. And then he smothered that smile with his lips, gently brushing, searching. Her tongue licked at his scar, and he shuddered. 

When he opened his eyes, they were standing under the tree. A large black horse (maybe Roger?) stood there, too, contentedly eating the forget-me-nots. Why he ate the flowers, Athos didn’t understand. They couldn’t taste as good as the grass and the mount appeared to be well fed. And yet, he nosed around, specifically eating all of the forget-me-nots he could reach, ignoring the grass. 

Anne broke their embrace and walked to the horse’s side. She stopped there and held very still, perfectly erect, as if waiting for something. He went around to pat the horse’s mane and look at Anne. She raised her eyebrows. 

“Well?” she said. “Aren’t you going to help me up? You promised you would always help me. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember anything?” 

Gaping at her, he hurried forward, and when she offered her foot, he practically threw her on the horse. When he checked to see if she had settled into the saddle, she had a noose around her neck, which was hanging from the tree. 

“You promised to help me,” she repeated, her mouth twisted as if she might spit at him. 

“I…I did help you! I helped you up. You said you wanted up.” 

“I said I wanted help!” Her yelling spooked the horse, and it sprinted off without her. She hung from the tree, fighting against the noose, but still able to speak clearly. “Does this look like help to you? You promised! Promised you would always love me! You break your promises! You never loved me! You never meant to help me, only to help yourself!” 

He shook his head and wanted to protest, but he couldn’t breathe or speak. He was choking, felt like he was the one in the noose, and all the while she continued to yell, “You promised! And you broke your promise!”


	12. Chapter 12

Athos fell asleep almost immediately after she kissed him. Anne couldn’t even begin to guess how exhausted he must be. If the reports were to be believed, no one had fought harder or been more pivotal to the French victory. 

That was why she was supposed to kill him. 

But she couldn’t do that now. The question, instead, was what would she do? He twitched in his sleep, and she wondered what he was dreaming about, and if it wouldn’t be better to wake him. But he needed this sleep and she needed the solitude to think. 

_The question is a simple one: stay or go? If you stay, you won’t really be staying. Athos will ship you back to Paris. As captain, does he have large enough rooms at the garrison for his wife? God, even if he does, the very thought of living at the garrison while Athos fights the war! And what will I do in my spare time? Sew uniforms with Constance?_

Athos jerked violently. Clearly his dream was a disturbing one. She really ought to wake him, if only long enough for him to forget what troubled him, and then he could go back to sleep. 

_Suppose the war ended tomorrow. What would life with Athos be then? He will never leave the Musketeers, and you have no desire to be a soldier’s wife. But what else can you be with Athos? You can no longer be the Comtesse de la Fère, not that you particularly reveled in being a comtesse. Would he, maybe, leave the Musketeers for you?_

She laughed quietly, moving a bit away from Athos so that her shaking body would not wake him. 

_Because there aren’t enough resentments piled up between the two of us. Obviously what we need to do is add some more. Tonight doesn’t really change anything. Yes, he said he forgave you for Thomas, but you will always be the woman who killed his brother. You will be a constant reminder that his beloved brother was a would-be rapist._

_And all of his friends hate me, not that I particularly blame them. Except perhaps that conceited ass, Aramis. He never did thank me for saving his life. Taking me back to Paris would alienate Athos from everyone else in his life. Furthermore, he would be entirely unwelcome at court, because I could certainly never show myself there._

Athos’s breathing eased and evened out. Perhaps his nightmare had ended. 

_I have to leave._

Anne choked back a sob when the realization came to her. Laying here, naked in Athos’s arms, even though she had just been cataloging the reasons why she couldn’t stay with him, when she saw that she had to leave, it hurt. There was a pain in her chest, and she didn’t know how she could move, but she knew that she had to. She simply could not still be here when he woke, because she knew he would ask her to stay. He would say that he loved her, and she absolutely could not hear that. 

She slipped from the bed and began to dress. Her stockings went back on easily because he had taken them off with such care. Finding her underclothes took some digging, but she found them and her shift, and she had them on quickly. 

To get to her dress, she had to pick up his doublet. Like his pauldron, it was new and had forget-me-nots stamped in the leather. Holding in her sob was almost more than she could manage, especially when she saw her teeth marks in one of the flowers. 

_Something to remember you by. He seems to like that sort of thing._

Getting her dress on without it rustling too loudly was the hardest part, but she managed it without waking him from his deep sleep. She fastened only as much as was necessary to keep it from falling off. She did the same with her boots, buckling them just enough to keep them on her feet. 

Her dagger lay on the floor next to the bed, beside her cloak. She slipped the cloak on, pulling the hood up to conceal herself. The blade glimmered in the lamplight. As she slid it back into its sheath, she knew that she would never have killed Athos. It would be easier to turn the blade on herself. 

_So, where will you go? Returning to James after this is not an option. And that pretty much ruins all of England. And the Spanish are all so hopelessly inept, I could never work for them. If you only had access to any of your money back in England. Near penniless again._ The fear of want threatened to overwhelm her. She glanced at Athos from the corner of her eye, and she almost convinced herself to stay, to believe the security she needed could be found with him. But she couldn’t do that to either of them. They had no life together that ended in anything other than bad feelings and resentment. No. She had to leave now, and at least spare them the slow decline into bitterness and regret. 

And yet she paused at the tent flap to turn back and look at Athos one final time. He now slept in perfect ease, a sense of quiet contentment on his face. She longed to rush over and brush the hair off his forehead and kiss him. But she absolutely could not risk waking him. She had to get away. 

_I hear Vienna is nice. Granted, I don’t speak German, but how hard can it be to learn? Surely someone will take pity on the poor French widow who lost her home in the war._

And with that, Anne slipped out of the tent, and back into the night.


End file.
